


The Heart is For Bleeding

by athena_crikey



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Crush, Fainting, Fluff, M/M, Mild Gore, Psychological Trauma, Sweet, h/c, teenage boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Awake the libero is so full of life, vast energy concentrated in a tiny form, fierce and fearsome on and off the court. Asahi has never once thought of him as delicate, as fragile. But lying unconscious on the kitchen floor without the searing force of his personality, Asahi realises how small he really is, how slight.OR: Nishinoya faints at the sight of blood.
Relationships: Azumane Asahi/Nishinoya Yuu, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 19
Kudos: 309





	The Heart is For Bleeding

Asahi’s enjoying the Golden Week training camp, but he does wonder a bit at the chore assignments. After a long day of practice he’s in the kitchen with Daichi, Hinata, and Nishinoya prepping food for dinner, and it’s clear that no one has ever let the tiny middle blocker in a kitchen before. Hinata has enthusiasm and volume, but not finesse, chopping onions every which way and bawling tearfully as he does so. Daichi, standing nearby watchfully, is regularly offering advice and corrections which seem to be having no impact.

Asahi’s on the other side of the room with Nishinoya, the two of them apparently deemed capable of handling themselves without supervision. Nishinoya’s cutting an apple into bunnies for Shimizu, his dextrous hands wielding the paring knife with care. Asahi, more pragmatically, is measuring out rice for the cooker.

“So then he rappels down from the roof with his gun in hand, and while he’s coming down the bad guys on the roof find the rope and start to cut it, and…” Nishinoya is regaling Asahi with the plot of the most recent action thriller he watched, full of grit and violence, his mouth twisted hilariously in deep concentration. Asahi thinks he looks terribly cute, not that he would ever in a million years tell him, his lips pursed together and his brows knit closely as he makes careful cuts. “And then, just as he’s coming close to the ground –”

“ _Shit_ ,” exclaims Hinata, his knife clattering to the table. Both Asahi and Nishinoya look up. Hinata’s holding his left hand. The palm is red with blood, the chopping block splattered with it; it’s leaking out between his fingers and dripping onto the table. Daichi hurries over and Asahi is just going when he hears Nishinoya’s knife and apple thud to the table. 

He turns back and sees the libero swaying, sees the blood drain out of his face, his skin suddenly shockingly pale. He’s staring at Hinata, at the blood trickling down his hand. Asahi frowns. “Nishi –”

Nishinoya gives a tiny sigh and drops, his eyes sliding closed. Heart in his mouth Asahi lunges forward and grabs him around the waist, lowering him to the ground where he lies limply, limbs spilling out and head in Asahi’s lap. “Nishinoya? Oi! Nishinoya!” He shakes the libero’s shoulder; no response.

“Asahi what the hell’s happening over there?” calls Daichi. 

“Nishinoya fainted. I guess the blood? He’s breathing okay…”

“Look, you take care of him. I’ve got to get Hinata some first aid. If he doesn’t wake up soon call Sensei.”

Asahi nods anxiously. “Okay.” He hears Daichi navigate Hinata out of the kitchen, the first year apologizing and fretting simultaneously. 

Nishinoya is breathing evenly. Awake the libero is so full of life, vast energy concentrated in a tiny form, fierce and fearsome on and off the court. Asahi has never once thought of him as delicate, as fragile. But lying unconscious on the kitchen floor without the searing force of his personality, Asahi realises how small he really is, how slight. He has great muscle tone in his torso and legs, but his arms taper to narrow wrists, his clever fingers thin. His face – always so expressive, so alive – is surprisingly soft, lashes painting a delicate dark line on his pale cheeks and thin lips slightly parted. 

Asahi’s heart is thrumming in his chest, partially from fear but also from some strange, foreign feeling. Something that wells up in him when he looks down at Nishinoya, a curling, throbbing ache. 

“Nishinoya?” he calls softly. Nishinoya’s eyelashes flutter; his chest rises with a strong breath. His eyes slide open and he stares up at Asahi. For a moment he doesn’t move, face slack; then confusion twists his features. 

“Asahi-san? What’s going on?” He tries to sit up and Asahi places a hand on his shoulder, pushing him down gently.

“Take it easy; you fainted. Do you know where we are?”

Nishinoya glances around. “Kitchen. Training camp.” And then, slower, his face tight and pinched now, “Shouyou cut himself.” Despite the late spring heat he shivers, shrinking inwards. 

“That’s right. How do you feel?”

“Shaky. Cold.” He looks up and sees the worry on Asahi’s face, forces a smile. “I’m okay.” He tries to sit up again, his skin still too pale and his body tense. Asahi catches his shoulder again and keeps him from rising.

“I think you should rest a little more,” he says, uncertain. “Why don’t we go upstairs?” 

“Upstairs? Nah – I’m okay, really Asahi-san…”

“Nishinoya, you’re clearly not.” He spreads his palm against Nishinoya’s, their hands pressed together. Nishinoya’s is trembling. The libero looks at him silently, eyes watchful. The way he is on the court when waiting for a serve, waiting to react. “Here. I’ll take you.”

“Wait –what –” Nishinoya doesn’t have the chance to protest further as Asahi picks him up in his arms like a sack of grain. The libero’s heavier than he looks but not too heavy for Asahi to manage; he’s been hauling rice for his elderly neighbours since middle school. “I can walk – Asahi-san, I’m…”

“Nishinoya, you were unconscious on the ground a minute ago. Just relax and hold on.” 

Slowly Nishinoya’s arms snake up and encircle Asahi’s shoulders, his head against Asahi’s collarbone. They pass Hinata’s abandoned cutting block and he turns his head into Asahi’s chest, eyes closed. His breath is hot over Asahi’s heart; the spiker feels it constrict with some emotion he can’t describe. 

Then they’re out into the hallway heading for the stairs. “I’m okay, really,” mumbles Nishinoya, looking up. It’s the first time Asahi has heard him speak so quietly, without his usual boundless confidence. “It’s not the first time.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Happened a couple of times when I was younger. Ever since I was little, blood… I just can’t stand it.”

Asahi glances down, surprised. “But all you watch is shoot ‘em up action movies.”

“It’s different on the screen; I don’t feel anything. Except body horror – I can’t stand that shit. Ryuu got real upset because I had to take off and puke during Alien when the thing burst out of that guy’s chest. Couldn’t watch the rest.” He shudders. 

Asahi treads up the stairs and into the tatami-floored room that acts as their communal bedroom. He walks over to the window and puts Nishinoya down, opening it so he can get some fresh air. Nishinoya leans back against the wall with his knees pulled up, eyes closed, taking deep breaths. “Can I get you anything?”

“I’ve got some water with my stuff,” says Nishinoya; Asahi goes over to the bags lined up against the wall and finds Nishinoya’s, digs through his spare clothes and manga and pulls out a water bottle. He sits down next to Nishinoya and hands it over. 

“Thanks man.” He takes a long swig from it, capping it and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Asahi watches the long, pale line of his throat as he swallows, the bob of his small Adam’s apple and the ripple in the hollow at the base of his neck. 

“How do you feel now?”

“Oh, better. It passes pretty quick. I’ll be fine in a minute – really.” His colour is already improving, his eyes brightening. He passes his arms around his legs, sitting hunched beneath the open window. The breeze is ruffling his hair; his t-shirt is lying crookedly, exposing the end of a narrow collarbone. He looks terribly, irresistibly attractive. Asahi immediately fishes for something to distract himself from his hideously inappropriate thoughts. 

“What happened before? I mean… you said this isn’t the first time,” says Asahi, and then wonders whether he should have picked something else to discuss. He’s never seen Nishinoya quiet and thoughtful like this, and it makes him even more uncertain.

Nishinoya rests his head on his knees, face turned towards Asahi. “When I was in middle school my little sister dropped a glass and broke it and then stepped on the shards – blood everywhere. I was on the other side of the room, and it was like… like all the colour drained out of the room, real fast; everything got grey and cold and far away. I knew something weird was happening, but I couldn’t do anything about it, and I just dropped. It was like that today, too. I can feel it coming, but my body just freezes up and goes all strange.

“I don’t remember the other time so well, but it happened in 5th or 6th grade when Mom cut her arm gardening. She took me to the doctor afterwards. He said some people just have fainting fits at the sight of blood.” He shrugs. “It’s not dangerous.”

“I’m glad. You really scared me. You know you’re really important, Nishinoya.” Asahi hears his words and feels himself flush, feels anxiety rear up inside him. “To the team, I mean. And me too. To all of us. I just… I never want anything to happen to you,” he finishes awkwardly. 

Nishinoya’s lips twist upwards into a bright, sunny grin. “Aw, thanks Asahi-san. I’m fine – I’m Karasuno’s Guardian Deity, how could I not be?” He sits up and stretches his arms high above his head, shirt lifting to show a sliver of toned abs; Asahi looks away guiltily. “Ready to go back downstairs? We should check on Shouyou.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

Nishinoya slaps him on the shoulder and scrambles leggily to his feet. “I’m sure! Let’s go.”

  
***

All tournaments get the teams hyped up, blood running hot, and the September Preliminary Qualifiers are no different. After their defeat at the Inter-High and a long summer of training to make up for it, Karasuno advances without much difficulty to the Prefectural Qualifiers. Like every other team they’re there to win – unlike every other team, they actually do.

They’re clearing out of the building, headed outside after their victory in a pack to eat their lunch in the late summer sun. Asahi and Nishinoya are towards the back of the team, Nishinoya chatting about Asahi’s awesome spikes while Asahi blushes and protests vaguely. 

They’re almost out of the building when they’re interrupted by shouting and scuffling from ahead. Two boys from Midorigawa, the losing team on the other court, are going at each other with their fists, their teammates arguing rather than interceding. Tanaka and Daisuke run forward to pull the two apart, but not before the taller one punches the shorter square in the nose. There’s an ugly cracking sound and he stumbles backwards, blood flowing freely from his nose and down his chin to drip thickly onto the floor. It’s a bright, vivid red, pinkening his teeth and splattering onto the linoleum below. 

Beside him, a hand catches his wrist. Asahi looks down to see Nishinoya pulling away, his shoulders rising with too-quick breaths, his face grey. Snapping into action Asahi slings his arm around Nishinoya’s shoulder and escorts him away, walking back from the chaos near the door to a tall window set in an alcove. It’s quieter here, and out of the line of sight of the foyer. There’s a bench set below the window and he pushes Nishinoya down gently onto it. “Put your head down,” he says, sitting beside the libero and guiding his head down towards his knees. He rubs Nishinoya’s back slowly, describing gentle circles as the smaller boy takes deep breaths, his hands fisted over his knees. 

“Okay?” asks Asahi softly. He can hear Tanaka shouting down the hall, can hear the low rumble of Daichi’s angry voice. He ignores them and focuses on Nishinoya. 

“Nngh.” The rough sound comes from the back of Nishinoya’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. His eyes are closed tightly, his mouth a long thin line. 

Asahi feels helpless, feels useless. All he can do is sit beside Nishinoya and try to reassure him with his presence, his touch, while the libero tries to fight down his body’s reaction. After Hinata Nishinoya is the most instinctual player they have, moving to meet the ball where his senses tell him it will be with his hands, arms, even his feet. On the court he moves fluidly, flawlessly, his mind and body perfectly aligned. Asahi wonders what he feels now that they’re pulling apart. 

Down the hall the fight’s breaking up, Midorigawa’s teacher and coach arriving to exert discipline. Asahi sighs gratefully as the shouting stops. Towards the back of the team Suga looks back at him, frowning questioningly. Asahi waves him away and he nods, ushering the rest of the team forwards and out the door. They’ll catch up in a few minutes. 

“Sorry for being so lame,” says Nishinoya thinly, his hands twitching. Asahi looks back to him; he has one eye cracked open, looking up at the spiker. “It’s supposed to be my job to watch your back – not the other way around.”

“Nishinoya, you’re the coolest person I know. There’s nothing lame about being sick. It’s not your fault. What kind of teammate – of friend – would I be if I didn’t take care of you? I’ll always look after you.” His heart’s pounding in his chest a mile a minute, the sound of it thrumming in his ears. 

Nishinoya swallows, eye sliding closed. “Thanks Asahi-san. You’re pretty cool yourself.”

Asahi feels his face getting hot. 

“And after all,” says Nishinoya, “You’re our ace.”

“Nishinoya…”

Nishinoya takes a deep breath and slowly sits up, his hand rising to rest on Asahi’s shoulder as if to steady himself. He clearly does it unconsciously, at ease with relying on Asahi. Asahi wants to reach out, to put his hand over Nishinoya’s, to thank him for trusting him. But that would be weird. 

Nishinoya glances down the hall towards the foyer, now empty. “What happened to everyone?”

“I think Daichi and Tanaka broke up the fight. Then their teacher and coach arrived and took them away.”

“What a bunch of idiots, fighting with their own team. A victory belongs to everyone, and so does a defeat. The only thing to do after losing is to get stronger as a team.”

Asahi suddenly remembers their own fight – the argument after their loss to Date Tech that had ultimately resulted in Nishinoya’s suspension and Asahi fleeing the team. No good at all had come of it, just hurt and heartbreak. He wonders if that’s what Nishinoya has in mind now. 

“We’re all stronger together,” agrees Asahi. Nishinoya’s hand on his shoulder tightens, fingers digging into the loose fabric of Asahi’s black jacket. It’s like he’s pulling at Asahi’s heart-strings, like he’s drawing Asahi’s chest tighter. Asahi stiffens, anxious and awkward.

“Feeling better?” he asks. 

Nishinoya tilts his head up to consider the ceiling. “Mm-hm,” he replies casually, stretching his legs out straight in front of him. “Think I’m okay now,” he adds, looking to Asahi and smiling. “Thanks for looking out for me.” In the bright sunlight his eyes seem to shine like amber, bright and beautiful.

Asahi swallows thickly. “Yeah. No problem,” he replies.

  
***

He doesn’t know who to talk to, so he talks to Suga. Suga has some kind of magical quality, an ability to take things just seriously enough without either cheapening them or letting them become overwhelming. They’re in the club room after practice, the rest of the guys either gone or finishing up their chores in the gym. Asahi’s fiddling with his hair band, fingers dull due to nervousness.

“Suga… I have a problem.”

The setter is sitting on the floor waiting for Daichi to finish locking up so they can go home. He looks up from the lint he’s picking off his pants and raises his eyebrows questioningly.

“It’s… it’s about Nishinoya.”

“Is this about your little tryst the other day at Qualifiers?”

“Suga! It wasn’t a tryst. Nishinoya was feeling sick so I took him to sit down; that’s all.”

“Mm hm.”

“No, really,” says Asahi, miserably. “It’s just… I can’t stop thinking about him. Can’t stop watching him. Everything he does makes my chest hurt – the way he moves, the way he smiles, the way he breathes.”

“So you like him,” says Suga easily, sitting up and folding his hands behind his head. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t! I mean, of course I like him – we’re teammates. I like everyone on the team!”

“But Nishinoya, you want to jump.” He grins lewdly. 

“Suga,” gasps Asahi, shocked. “I would never. I mean, he’s my kouhai.”

Suga sighs. “Asahi, I’m not sure if you really haven’t noticed this until now, but senpai date their kouhai all the time. It’s the circle of life.” 

“And he’s… well… he’s a guy,” mutters Asahi. 

“You do know that Daichi and I are seeing each other, yes?” inquires Suga.

Asahi nods. “Yes, I know.” It’s an open secret, although Asahi’s not sure the first years have picked up on it. They seem far too involved in their own affairs. 

“Do you think that’s wrong?” Suga’s voice is calm but serious. 

“No! No, of course not. But it’s… it’s different…”

“In what way?”

“You’re both so… so okay with it. Nishinoya’s in love with Shimizu. He came here because of the girls’ uniform. He’s clearly into… that,” finishes Asahi, lamely.

“You’ll never know if you don’t ask him,” says Suga easily.

Asahi runs his hands through his hair, dropping the headband on the floor. “I can’t, Suga. I just can’t. What if he thinks I’m a creep, or a monster, or a pervert? Oh God, what if I _am_? The things I think about – the things I _want_ …” Asahi trails off, staring dismally at his feet. 

“Breathe,” says Suga, standing and crossing over to stand beside Asahi. He puts his hand on his shoulder. “Breathe, Asahi. You’re not a monster. You’re a perfectly normal teenage boy, and there’s nothing wrong with wanting. It’s acting that needs permission.”

Asahi takes in a shuddering breath. “Suga…”

“Look, I don’t know what Nishinoya thinks about you – not for sure. But I can tell you that he pays more attention to you than the rest of the team combined. When he’s on the back line, it’s you that he’s watching, Asahi. When you left the club, he refused to come back until you did – he put you above volleyball, and there’s nothing else I know of that he would put above volleyball. So maybe his feelings aren’t romantic. But I’m not all that sure they’re platonic either.”

Asahi sighs. “I dunno. Maybe…”

Suga slaps him on the back, hard. “Grow a pair, Asahi! You’ll never know unless you talk to him. So give it a try.”

Asahi twists his mouth into something resembling a smile. “Yeah,” he says dully. “Sure. Thanks, Suga.”

  
***

It goes without saying that Asahi does not talk to Nishinoya about his feelings.

  
***

Summer transitions to fall, the days growing shorter and the air colder. Fresh fall produce comes into the stores; coffee shops start serving yuzu tea and street vendors hawk grilled yams. Karasuno’s volleyball team continues its twice-daily practices, driving hard to rub off the rough edges before the Prefectural Qualifiers.

On the afternoon of a not otherwise eventful day, Asahi arrives in the clubroom to change for practice to find Suga and Daichi already there, talking seriously.

“Asahi!” exclaims Suga; Daichi turns. “You should go to the nurse’s office,” continues the setter, without his usual smile. 

Asahi frowns. “What? Why? I feel fine.”

“It’s Nishinoya,” says Daichi. “Apparently he fainted in class. They were doing dissections, and… Asahi?”

But Asahi’s already on his way out. 

He runs all the way to the nurse’s room, a small space adjacent to the teachers’ room with two beds and a desk for the nurse. She looks up at him as he comes in. “I heard Nishinoya’s here,” he says, breathlessly. “Can I see him?

She indicates the occupied bed. “Don’t be too loud,” she says. 

Nishinoya’s lying in the bed beneath the window with his arms crossed over his face. On the table beside the bed is a metal basin with small droplets of water at the bottom; it’s clearly been washed out recently. There’s a short stool beside the bed and Asahi pulls it out and takes a seat. “Nishinoya?” he says, softly. 

Nishinoya raises his arms. His face is wan and drawn, his pupils over-large. His lips are thin and pale, his breathing jagged. “Asahi-san,” he says, faintly. 

“What happened?”

Nishinoya grimaces. His arms fall away to cross over his stomach, holding himself tightly as if cold. The nurse’s office is the only one in the school with AC and heating, and right now the temperature’s warm. “We were doing dissections. Foetal pigs. I asked Sensei beforehand if there would be blood and she said no. I thought it would be okay. Even looking down at it in the tray, I felt okay. But then I started cutting into it… the feel of its skin under the knife… the look of its layers of flesh…” he swallows. “I stopped but my partner kept going and I couldn’t look away and he cut deeper into it and… I blacked out. Fell right off the stool I guess. I don’t know. A couple of the guys carried me here.” He’s hunched over in bed now, face white, his hands clawed as they grip his upper arms tightly. His eyes are wide and staring, slightly glossy. 

“You’re okay now,” says Asahi softly. “Just think about something else.”

Nishinoya looks up at him. He looks sick – looks scared. “I can’t,” he says, voice catching. “I can’t, I… During the Training Camp, when I told you this just happens to people… I was lying. I mean, it does, and that’s what the doctor said, but… I lied to him too.” He takes a breath. 

“Nishinoya?”

Nishinoya’s staring at the wall over Asahi’s right shoulder, eyes unfocused. His jaw is working, muscles corded and stiff. “When I was little – 2nd grade – I was on my way to school. There was this girl on this old, beat-up bike, and she was really fighting with it to get it up the hill. She lost control and skidded out to the side, and at the same time a car came down the hill and hit her. It was… she… it just tore her open. So much blood, and bone, and her skin all ripped…” Nishinoya’s cheeks bulge and Asahi grabs the bowl, puts it under him as he turns and starts retching. 

It’s just bile, the thick viscous liquid pouring from his mouth and then quickly replaced by dry heaves. Nishinoya keeps coughing and heaving even though there’s nothing left to bring up, his fingers buried in the bedsheets and his eyes full of distress. His coughs are rough and shattering, seem almost enough to tear him apart. Asahi rubs his back, his shoulders, his neck, trying to comfort him, trying to make this stop. The nurse hurries over and stands beside him, no more able to help than he is. He feels useless, completely and utterly inadequate. 

Finally Nishinoya stops retching, groaning and flopping down onto the bed. The nurse hands down a glass of water which he takes and swirls a mouthful, spitting it out in the bowl and then drinking a little from the glass. She produces a small white tablet and hands it to him. “This will help with the nausea, Nishinoya-kun.” He swallows it with another sip of water, and she leaves, taking the bowl with her.

Nishinoya lies curled up on his side breathing hard, eyes shuttered. “It’s all I can see. When I see blood, when I smell it… all I can think of is that girl,” he says quietly. “It’s burned into my memory, so bright, so vivid.”

Without thought, without reflection, Asahi reaches out. He lays his hand on the side of Nishinoya’s face, his thumb over the sharp cheekbone and the tips of his fingers buried in his hair. His palm fits itself to the angles of the libero’s face, caresses it softly. “Concentrate on this. Concentrate on me,” he says softly. “I’m right here. I’m right here with you, and you’re safe. You’re going to feel better and we’ll go get changed and play volleyball together. So just focus on me.”

Nishinoya stares up at him, eyes wide. Slowly he reaches up and puts his small hand over Asahi’s, catches his fingers over the edge of Asahi’s hand and holds it. He turns his face towards Asahi’s palm, nuzzling his cheek into it; Asahi’s breath catches in his throat. Nishinoya’s eyes slide closed and his breathing slowly evens out. The tension fades from his face, his skin tone growing warmer. His thumb rubs along the length of Asahi’s hand as if to reassure himself of its presence. Only when a minute has passed does he open his eyes and meet Asahi’s.

“Asahi-san…” 

“That’s right. I’m right here, okay? Don’t think about the past, focus on me. Think about all the balls you’re going to save for me, about the tosses you’ll set for me. About the points we’ll win together.”

Nishinoya nods, stroking his face against Asahi’s hand. His colour is back nearly to normal, his breathing smooth. His lips are no longer pale but are rosebud pink, his eyes calm. 

“Feel better?” asks Asahi gently.

Nishinoya nods. Then slowly he smiles, such a simple, carefree grin. “You want me to think about you.”

Asahi blushes, and Nishinoya’s grip on his hand tightens, his grin becoming wicked. “You want me to think about us,” he adds, and Asahi’s stomach does a flip. 

“U-us?”

“You said you’d always take care of me, didn’t you?”

He nods helplessly. 

“You’ll always be here for me?”

He nods again.

Nishinoya rubs his thumb down the line of Asahi’s hand, the warm sensation of it sending shivers up Asahi’s spine. “Then it’s us,” he says firmly. “Right?”

Asahi looks down at him in disbelief. But Nishinoya’s still there, still holding his hand, still smiling so brightly. Nishinoya, who isn’t disgusted or upset by his attention. Nishinoya, who _wants_ it. Asahi kneels on the side of the bed and bends, pressing his forehead to Nishinoya’s, wrapping his arms around the libero and holding him close. His eyes slide closed, his nervousness for once subsiding. “Yes,” he says. “It’s us.”

This sense of peace and calm is something only Nishinoya seems to bring out in him. A kind of strength that knowing the libero always has his back grants him. It never occurred to him that Nishinoya might want the same from him, might count on him just as much. 

“Asahi-san?”

Asahi opens his eyes and lifts his head. Nishinoya reaches up and presses his hand to Asahi’s face, a mirror of the spiker’s gesture. His skin is soft, warm. “Next time,” he says, smiling, “I’ll look after you.”

END


End file.
